


(new) Perspective / (self) Reflection

by Eremiss



Series: Guinevere Ashe [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Apologies, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Mush, Healing, Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Idiots in Love, Light Angst, Midlander Hyur (Final Fantasy XIV), Midlander Hyur Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29907681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eremiss/pseuds/Eremiss
Summary: With another Lightwarden dead and night returned to Ahm Araeng, Gwen takes a bit of time to reflect... And to wonder if Thancred is as alright, physically and mentally, as he's trying to claim.(2/2)
Relationships: Thancred Waters/Original Female Character(s), Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters, Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Series: Guinevere Ashe [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632004
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	(new) Perspective / (self) Reflection

To call the day ‘long’ would be an understatement. It feels like a sennight, or even longer, has passed since Gwen woke bright and early that morning to make for Naabath Araeng. It boggles the mind to think so much could happen, could even _fit_ , within one day.

But they did, somehow. Which is probably why Gwen is so thoroughly _exhausted_. 

It’s the nature of long days to be draining on both mind and body. The events that stretch the seconds into minutes into bells demand strength and endurance to overcome, and mental fortitude and determination to push forward. 

Yet a sense of something left unfinished is tugging at her, steady and insistent.

The day had started just after dawn in Twine and, given the darkness outside, it should finally be coming to an end.

And yet, somehow, it still isn’t done.

Finally coming to the right door, Gwen hesitates before knocking to catch her breath. Everything about her is loose and heavy, her muscles full of hot sand and her thoughts lagging. She’s more out of breath than a slayer of primals and Light Wardens really ought to be after only climbing a few flights of stairs, particularly when she wasn’t even in a rush.

Instead of thinking about that, or the events that had left her so exhausted, she scolds herself for not coming by earlier. She’d meant to write just a bit while she waited for the meeting with the Exarch to end, to just lay out groundwork that she would build off and expand on later, after she’d visited the others. But, as she should have expected, once she’d sat down with her journal and put pen to paper the proverbial floodgates had opened. 

The thought of all that writing draws the quiet pain in her hand and wrist to the front of her mind. The ache lingers even when her hand is idle and loose, spiking sharply whenever she has the audacity to try and use it. 

She massages her palm and forearm, trying to relieve whichever muscles are responsible for the cramp. It doesn’t work any better now than it had earlier, unfortunately, but at least she won’t make it any worse now that she’s done writing. Her hand had started cramping up less than a bell in, but she’d pushed through it for another two.

It’s hard to ignore the persistent trembling of her hand as she looks it over, but musing over this being the first time she’s had writers’ cramp in _ages_ is enough to keep her distracted. She wonders how long this ache will stick around.

It’s not surprising her hand cramped up, really. She’s been neglecting her journal, and herself by extension, for more than a moon, which is plenty of time for all the stamina and strength she’d built up to start dwindling. Clutching the pen so tightly and bearing down on the pages like she had been, sometimes even leaving dents that went a few pages deep, had meant even more strain, too.

She is, and yet isn’t, surprised that Ardbert had seemed to know the broader strokes of what she’d been writing about when he’d poked his head in to check on her earlier. Their myriad conversations since her arrival on Norvrandt had wound up skirting the edges of those untouched topics a time or two, despite her efforts to avoid them. Hardly surprising, as he was a Warrior of Light, too, and he understood what that entailed, what that _meant_ , in a way no one else did– or even could, though not for lack of trying.

He hadn’t begrudged her for preferring lighter topics over heavy questions, or for using conversation as a brief distraction from troubling things like Ascian plots and the Light, but he had never let her avoidance of a subject pass without comment. “ _That’s not going to just go away, you know._ ”

And he was right, of course.

Spending three straight bells bent over her journal untangling all the things she’d allowed to twist, knot and fray hadn’t been a pleasant process, but she’d been in dire need of it. Laying out everything at once had forced her to recognize just how much she’d been trying to hide from and avoid through willful ignorance and stubbornness, and just how futile it was to will herself to be fine when she very well knew she wasn’t. She’d buried the problems she didn’t want to have and the questions she didn’t want to answer, and rather than quietly disappearing like she’d hoped they’d gone to seed, festering at the back of her mind and growing in the spaces between her thoughts every time she pretended they weren’t there. 

It’s uncomfortable to acknowledge all the things she’d been avoiding, and how much of a toll it had taken on her to do so. She’s felt like a piece of cloth that’s been worn too thin and stretched close to tearing for more of her time on Norvrandt than she likes to admit, the stress of her mental gymnastics and the intangible weight she’d been carrying whittling away at her even in her sleep.

Then she’d sat down and forced herself to confront it all at once.

Three bells later she came away with a mostly-full journal, a cramping hand, and the clearest head she’s had in… much too long.

Her hand isn’t the only thing that’s aching, either. Her mind is raw and tender like she’d just spent those bells scrubbing and scalding away moons of caked dirt and grit, clean and unburdened but sore. Her head isn’t full of static and dissonant ringing anymore, and her thoughts aren’t cramped and bent out of shape by all the useless clamor that had filled every last ilm of space between her ears. There are still some knots and clutter to work on, but the worst of it has been dealt with, or at least broken down into more manageable pieces. She can finally _breathe_.

As much of a relief as it is, she can’t help but feel guilty for allowing herself to get in such a state, especially when she’d known all along how foolish she was being. But it had been far too tempting to hope it would all work out, to cover her ears and soldier on and wait for everything to resolve itself without her.

Gwen heaves a sigh, flexing her fingers and staring at the door in front of her, drawing her thoughts away from her journal and her hand.

For all she’s been through since setting foot on Norvrandt, and even since her friends were Called to the First, Thancred has endured a great deal more. The years on the First have taken the greatest toll on him out of anyone and, despite everything working out in the end, today was likely the heaviest of them all. He had looked almost ready to collapse when they’d parted ways in the Exedra, tiredness making him lean heavily against her when she’d eased his not-unfounded suspicion about Y’shtola’s request to speak privately with her and Ryne.

Judging by the look on his face and the way he’s seemed so much _lighter_ since Ladle, he’s finally found the closure and peace of mind he’s been bereft of since Matoya’s cave and the aftermath of the Bowl of Embers. Despite his blatant weariness he’d managed to stand a little taller and breathe a little easier after Ladle, visible signs that his heart and mind were lighter, freed of some of the things he’d carried alone for much too long.

Though she’s glad for his newfound ease, she worries what scars or marks may may linger even after sucha burden was lifted. Perhaps none, or ones that merely need time and distance to soften. She hopes so. Either way, there isn’t much help she can offer for them just yet, with everything still so fresh.

How he’s faring physically, however, is a different story. 

He’d looked positively hellish sitting on those steps, and things had only gotten worse from there. She’d caught more than enough grimaces, sharp inhales and small adjustments to his posture to know he was far from fully recovered from his battle, though he’d stubbornly insisted otherwise. 

Knowing him, he likely hadn’t allowed Y’shtola and Urianger to heal him to their fullest extent, wanting them to save their energy for the Lightwarden, or simply not waste it on him, or… or some other excuse, the ridiculous man… 

Gwen smiles despite herself.

He has more than a bit of recovery ahead of him, and being cared for often does as much for wounds within as without, and helps the healer as much as the one they’re tending to. To that end, mayhap she can convince him to let her fuss over him a bit.

If he’s awake, that is. It’s _late_ , and it’s been a terribly long day.

Which… she hadn’t thoroughly considered until just now. 

She worries at her lip and finds it uncomfortably tender under her teeth. Not terribly surprising given how much she’s abused it today, especially while she’d been writing. The inside of her cheeks are a bit beat up, too, though she hasn’t yet broken the skin. If she’d let her hair down she likely would have pulled a bit of it out, or given herself a headache tugging on it. Or both. 

Well, she’s already here, and concern is plucking at her heartstrings, so she can at least knock.

She lifts a hand.

The door swings open. 

Gwen freezes, blinking dumbly. Her hand hovers for a moment before dropping listlessly back to her side.

Thancred’s preemptive unwelcoming glower immediately cracks, softening into a look of mild surprise.

She ought to say something. Instead she notices the bruise on his cheek is still there, though lighter than it ought to be considering he’s only had it a few bells. A hair-thin seam is the only remaining evidence that his lips had been split, and it doesn’t look nearly so bad now that he’s had the chance to wash away all the blood and dirt.

Her gaze trails down from his face to his bare chest, taking in the marks from his fight with Ran’jit. More seams and mottled bruises in all shades of purple and brown are splattered all across his torso and arms, a few outliers even dotting his neck. He’s holding himself more stiffly than normal even as he oozes fatigue, lingering discomforts instilling a hint of prudent mindfulness in his posture. 

Her eyes drift back to his face, shadows hanging under his half-hooded eyes and his features drooping with tiredness. He looks like he wants to flop down on a bed and sleep for a week. She’d like to do that too, honestly.

“I thought I sensed someone at the door,” Thancred says, leaning against the doorframe. 

Ah, of course. Gwen had gotten a bit lost in her thoughts while catching her breath, and hovering at the door for a minute or two is plenty of time for him to notice her presence. 

“Did I wake you?” she asks, even as she wonders if he could have sensed her loitering if he’d been asleep.

He shakes his head. “No.”

That’s a small relief; she didn’t want to disturb him. And a small disappointment, as it’s late and he needs to rest. “I’m surprised you’re still up.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” he says conversationally, folding his arms –slightly to one side to avoid a bruise on his chest– and giving her a knowing look. “According to a certain acerbic thaumaturge you retired bells ago.”

Gwen simply hadn’t had the will to bicker or protest when Y’shtola had ordered her to bed. She’d wanted to save what little energy she’d had left for writing about all things things that she’d been wrestling with since the trek to Malikah’s Well. 

Her uncharacteristic willingness had earned a relieved but worried look from Ryne, and a much more surprised and contemplative one from Y’shtola. She knew she should’ve tried to phrase her acquiescence as a joke, at least, but she’d been too preoccupied to manage it. Thankfully they’d both simply accepted it and sent her on her way.

“Ah. Well,” she hedges, leaning back on her heels and glancing aside, “I… meant to.”

Thancred scoffs. “Got distracted along the way, did you?”

In a sense. She’d been so focused on writing and working out every last bump, kink and loose threads that she’d sort of… forgotten about everything else. Even her own fatigue.

Gwen replies by way of a tired half-smile and a small shrug. _Something like that, yeah._

He gives her an openly appraising look, eyes roving over her as hers had him. Then his lips twitch with a smirk, “You look as tired as I feel.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over her, bringing memories of standing in a dark hallway at gods-only-knew-when at night and waking up together in Duskfeather’s stall. 

Her heart skips and her head goes a little light for a moment, her balance suddenly threatening to turn precarious. She lets out a breathless, slightly dazed laugh, struggling to pull her suddenly scattered thoughts back together again.

What had been his reply when she’d said that exact same thing to him? It’s been _years_. She remembers, she just has to dig through all the tiredness and nostalgia to find it.

Gods… that night somehow feels like it happened ages ago and just the other week at the same time. The two of them are so different now, so much has _happened_. Yet they’re still _them_.

“I, ah,” she can’t hep a laugh, her shoulders sagging with relief she hadn’t entirely expected. “I’m told pots and kettles have a lot in common.”

He gives her a tired, easy smile, looking the slightest bit relieved himself. He steps back from the door and invites her in with a nod, and she follows him.

Gwen glances around the apartment as Thancred closes the door and turns on a few dim lights. It’s just about as spartan and practical as his room at the Rising Stones, with nothing on the walls but coat hooks, a weapon rack, and blackout drapes for the large windows. The layout is generally similar to hers with the exception of two additional doors, one tucked in a nook just off the kitchen and the other taking the place of the armoire she has in her room. They must be bedrooms, as the alcove where her bed would be instead houses a couch, two chairs and a tall, mostly-filled bookshelf. 

His coat is draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, his armor and gunblade strewn haphazardly on and around the table without any of the care and consideration he typically shows his gear. The display just serves as further proof of his exhaustion, as he’s normally far more mindful and organized, not to mention the fact that Ryne has proved to be a stickler for cleanliness–

“Ryne’s asleep?” Gwen asks, glancing between the doors her apartment doesn’t have and wondering which room is whose.

Thancred’s gaze automatically flicks to the door by the sitting area. “She’s not here.”

She tilts her head inquiringly.

“‘Twas Urianger’s idea. She’s with him,” he says with a shrug that implies he didn’t have much say in the matter. “He thought it a good idea that the both of us have some time to ourselves, room to breathe, and… I forget what else. He rambled on for a while, as is his wont.” He rolls his eyes, and Gwen laughs softly under her breath. Much as Thancred acts otherwise, she knows he pays attention to their long-winded friend. 

Gwen recalls how Thancred’s tone has been different with Ryne ever since Ladle, though she can’t quite describe how. He’s smiled at her more than he used to, too, or at least more openly. 

“So,” he says, moving to the kitchen table and leaning his hip against it, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright after,” there are too many things to list, and she falters for a moment before settling for, “everything.”

He heaves a commiseratory sigh, recalling the day and looking more tired for it. “It’s certainly been a hell of a day, hasn’t it?” 

_To put it mildly,_ she thinks, lips pulling slightly to one side as she joins him at the table. “How are you feeling?”

“Well enough, all things considered,” he says without much thought, making fine adjustments to his stance to appear suitably relaxed while still minding problematic areas.

The corners of her mouth tug down a little and she studies his posture and expression, searching for some hint of falsehood. It would be good news if he truly was fairing well, but she’s not sure how truthful he’s being– about either his physical or mental hurts.

After a few seconds of quiet scrutiny he rolls his eyes good naturedly and huffs. “I’m not up for dancing a jig or walking around on my hands, if that’s what you’re wondering. And,” he gestures at the bruise on his cheek, “I’ll have the souvenirs for a few days yet, but otherwise,” he shrugs again, unconcerned

Gwen hums to herself, her attention lingering on his bruised cheek. The sight of him on those steps flashes before her eyes and her stomach clenches. 

“What about you?”

She pushes the image away, blinking owlishly, “Me?”

“I’m not the only one who faced an ordeal or two today,” he says, his tone just barely lacking a leading edge. He looks her up and down much the same way she had him.

“Ah. I’m… I’m well enough, all things considered,” she parrots with a weary shrug. She purposely avoids thoughts of the Light and the painful crackling that had erupted in her chest after Malikah’s Well, in the Exedra, and even her own room.

The unimpressed look he tries to give her is hampered by the hint of amusement playing in his eyes. He shakes his head, muttering, “What am I going to do with you…” under his breath.

Gwen’s eyes try to drift to the bruise on his cheek again, but she pulls them down to the pouches on her belt before they can, her hands moving to follow. “Here, I brought you this.”

The jar of salve is half-empty, but there’s nothing she can do about that without returning to the Source. The alchemist or Spagyrics might carry something similar, but the former has been closed for bells and the latter hasn’t yet recovered from the Eulmoran attack on Lakeland.

“You come bearing gifts,” he drawls, glancing at the proffered jar. He pauses, recognition registering on his face. “That’s…” 

He looks back at her, the look on his expression a bit too confused to be called disbelief. “Your blend. From the Source.”

She nods, pleased that he recognizes it so readily. He barely ever used it back home and he’s had years to forget, but he still remembers.

A strange look filters across his face as he stares at the little jar, as though he’s struggling to process the sight of it. Several seconds pass, and he makes no move to take it.

She cocks her head, trying to make sense of his expression.

He finally speaks, his tone matching the skeptical arch of his brow, “Just so happened to have that on you when the Exarch brought you over, did you?”

She blinks slowly. “I didn’t go and get it just now, if that’s what you mean.” 

And he is _far_ too relieved to hear that, letting out an audible sigh and visibly relaxing.

She’s not sure what’s more ridiculous: that he thought she could manage the trip in such a short amount of time, or that he’s so very relieved she didn’t try. “Did you really think–?”

“–that you would not hesitate to go back to the Source for any of our sakes, no matter how minor the errand?” he interjects wryly. “ _Yes_.”

Well, he has her there. Her mouth works uselessly for a moment while she tries to compose a suitable reply, and she concedes the point with a small pout.

He grins, absently shuffling a hand through his hair to get it falling properly around his face. “You must admit, it’s quite the stroke of luck to have that with you at just the right time to bring it to the FIrst.”

Gwen looks down at the little jar, running her fingers over the smooth glass.

Yes, technically it was luck. But she’d rigged the odds somewhat by keeping the salve and a few other things on her at all times after Ghimlyt, when Alisaie had joined her brother and the other Scions in Dawn’s Respite.

The ointments and salves were useful to have on the battlefield, for one. For another, she’d desperately hoped it was only a matter of time before she could do something to save her friends, before she _finally_ figured out what had happened to them and could bring them home, and whenever that time came she wanted to be ready.

Her smile quirks slightly, and then fades.

It was a well-intentioned plan, except for the fact that carrying those supplies would have been utterly pointless if her soul had been taken from her body, like theirs had been.

She’d been aware of that every time she’d tucked the jars into the pouches on her belt, but she’d done it anyway. It had almost felt like being prepared, like _doing_ something, rather than simply sitting around uselessly.

“…Sort of,” Gwen says at length.

Thancred’s expression had changed alongside hers, a small frown on his lips and a crease beginning to show above his brow as he studies her face. 

She moves to open the little jar, “Here, let me–” 

Sharp pain jolts through her palm and wrist when she grasps the lid, reverberating all the way to her elbow. She jerks her hand back with a grimace, sucking her breath through her teeth.

He tenses immediately, standing straighter. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she assures, exasperation warming her cheeks as she gingerly flexes her fingers. “Just a cramp.”

“Cramp?” he echoes, puzzled.

“From writing.” She stares uselessly at the closed jar, then offers it to him.

He pays it no mind, peering intently at her with a shrewd, insightful look in his eye that makes her feel like she just said too much and gave away a secret. 

After a long moment Thancred takes the proffered jar and sets it aside with more care than he had shown any of his discarded gear, and more than the tough little container really needs. When he turns back his expression has shifted somewhat, thoughtful but still subtly odd in a way that makes it difficult to decipher. It’s not fair that he can leave her so stumped after all these years, especially when he can read her so easily.

He takes her cramping hand in both of his with the same sort of care, nudging her rubbing fingers aside and replacing them with his own. He presses harder than she did, rubbing firm, smooth patterns over her palm. It isn’t entirely pleasant, but it stops short of being painful.

She knows she should protest, and almost does; he’s the injured one, on top of enduring a far more difficult day, and half the reason she’s even here is to help take care of whatever hurts are still bothering him. 

But, after everything he’s been through and all the concern and nagging he’s put up with, maybe he ought to be allowed to fuss a bit, too, if it suits him. And she’s drawing more than a bit of comfort from this simple, thoughtful gesture, and it’s not easy to convince herself to put an end to it.

“Didn’t think that could happen to you, of all people,” he says as if their conversation had never stalled. “You put novelists to shame with how much you write.”

“You’re exaggerating,” she says without conviction, watching him work. 

“Barely.” He shoots her a look that says they both know he’s right.

Does she want to admit to how little she’s been writing? He’s surely well aware already, given his tendency for snooping, but it’s not as though he can admit that. Besides, with everything that’s been going on he might’ve had too much on his mind to go digging around in her private thoughts like he used to. 

She can at least give him the means to talk about what he already knows without incriminating himself.

Whatever she says, and whatever he does or doesn’t already know about her neglected journal, he’ll have no trouble reading the tacit admission between the lines of a truthful answer. But she’s fully tired of pretending to be alright when she isn’t, and she’s seen time and again, particularly on the First, how harmful it can be. There’s no reason to hide how much she’s been struggling, except her own reluctance to admit it and not wanting to push her problems onto others. 

“I’ve fallen a bit out of practice, actually,” Gwen admits, glancing at the dusty toes of her boots. Her feet hurt. 

In truth, she’d begun shying away from her journal after the Ghimlyt Dark, when she’d felt as though she was talking herself in circles for pages on end, only to come away feeling more knotted and twisted up than before. 

Norvrandt had provided enough distraction and excuses for her to all but abandon it. She’d half-heartedly tried to write again after Il Mheg, but she’d just wound up working herself up even more.

Thancred makes a sound that matches the pensive look coming over his face. “A bit, eh?”

She hesitates. “Perhaps…a bit more than a bit.”

One corner of his mouth tightens slightly, and he shifts his pensive look to her hand. “That would explain why it seems as though I’ve barely seen you writing. I’d almost thought I was imagining it.”

He threads his fingers through hers and wraps his other hand around her wrist to hold it steady, mumbling for her to relax before starting to press, pull and tilt her hand in different directions. 

It’s tempting to curl her fingers and hold his hand, craving the affectionate connection more than a cure for her aching wrist.

She shifts her weight forward, then back. Her hand stays relaxed, fingers limp. “I decided to make up for lost time when I got back to my room and, well…”

“Well,” he drawls, bowing their hands downwards. Her fingers make a startlingly audible series of pops. “I hope it was worth the cramps.”

She hums and nods. He’s pleased to hear it.

A comfortable silence settles over them as he repeats a few of the stretches he’s already done and then transitions back to rubbing her palm. 

“I should be doing this for you,” Gwen says finally. Her hand and wrist are relaxed and loose, and she’s not sure further ministrations are necessary.

“I’m beginning to wonder if your visit might be less about checking up on me,” Thancred says knowingly, giving her a lopsided smile, “and more about getting a chance to fuss.”

She shrugs. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He cants his head agreeably, his gaze holding hers for a moment before dropping back to their joined hands. His touch is lighter now, less attempting to massage away the cramp and more mapping out her palm. It stirs up memories of similar times on the Source, back before this whole mess started.

Gwen doesn’t think about reaching for him so much as she realizes her free hand is moving, drifting up towards his face, and doesn’t stop it. She hesitates at the last moment, giving him the time to protest or pull away. When he does neither, she lets her palm rest against his cheek. 

Her thumb brushes against the healed cut on his lips. The texture of magically knit skin conjures up the image of him from that afternoon, covered in dirt and dust and looking like hell, dried blood crusted on every cut and smeared on his armor. A small, protective feeling sparks in her chest and tightens her features with as sympathetic wince. She wonders, not for the first time, how it all would have played out if she’d stayed and he’d gone, or if they’d fought Ran’jit together.

Thancred studies the look on her face, and his expression doesn’t soften so much as it gradually eases and relaxes, drooping with palpable weariness that’s altogether different than the physical tiredness that has been weighing on him since he first opened his door. A shadowy weight behind his eyes softens and dissolves in a way that makes her think of a frozen lake thawing. The lake isn’t growing deeper so much as opening up; the depths were always there but obscured by warding ice, and now they’re coming into focus. 

Gwen eases closer without thinking, the simple openness to beckoning her closer. She slips her other hand from his to smooth her fingertips along the line of his jaw, lighter than she might have on the Source and careful of his bruise. 

He relaxes as if he’d just stopped holding his breath, a sound she barely hears slipping out with his exhale.

Wanting to speak but at a bit of a loss, she falls back on the reason she’d paid him a visit so late. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been worse,” he replies, evasive but honest.

Her fingers wander delicately over his bruised cheek, simply touching for the sake of it. He leans into her hands, shoulders sinking a little lower. 

She rocks up onto her toes to nudge his nose with hers, “Let me take care of you?” 

He leans towards her but stops himself at the last second, remembering he’s supposed to pretend her concern is exasperating. He huffs into the space between them, throwing in a dramatic roll of his eyes for good measure. “Fine, fine, if you’re going to be so insistent…”

As his earlier glance had suggested, Thancred’s room is the one off the kitchen. It’s large enough to comfortably fit his bed, a dresser and a desk, but not much more. Gwen wonders if the other room is the same size. If not, she’s certain this is the smaller of the two, and smiles at the thought.

Thancred sits on the edge of his bed and lets her fuss over him, only occasionally remembering to keep up his act of begrudging acceptance as she examines his injuries with conjury and careful touches. 

“You’ve been itching to do this since Ladle, haven’t you?” he complains mildly. 

She hums a confirmation, both relieved and somewhat disappointed to find there’s naught to do but let time handle what remains of his injuries There’s nothing for her to worry about, but there’s also not much help she can offer besides the salve. If she hadn’t gotten so wrapped up in writing earlier, maybe she could’ve bought a potion or elixir. 

She perches beside him and tugs off her gloves while he opens the jar. The familiar, earthy scent of the salve fills the air, noticeable but mild enough to be inoffensive. After another quick assessment she starts with the darkest bruises, trying to be sparing with the salve and delicate with her touch.

The silence is more comfortable than it has been in weeks, no unspoken discomforts or irritations lurking restlessly beneath the quiet. Hints of something like hesitance or uncertainty flit by every now and again, but they disappear as quickly as they come. 

Thancred’s attention is a constant, gentle weight as she works, noticeable but not uncomfortable. He isn’t critiquing or scrutinizing, simply watching.

It almost feels like before, before his soul was stolen away and so much came to separate them. That’s happening a lot tonight, now that she’s thinking about it.

Gwen gradually senses the vaguest hint of anticipation between them, not quite expectant but still waiting. As the silence stretches the feeling grows, and no amount of focusing on her task serves to make it unwind. 

Thancred’s expression remains relaxed and easy as the minutes pass, and she realizes that the feeling is coming from her.

Strange. Why? She’d wanted to check on him and care for him –’fuss’ as he’d called it– and she’s doing just that. What else–

Oh.

Ladle. 

Recalling the way she’d grabbed his collar and swore at him, venting a part of the storm that she’d allow to brew in her head and heart for too long, makes her stomach squirm and her heart skitter a little lower in her chest. 

The idea drifts by that maybe she… doesn’t need to bring it up. Thancred hasn’t said a word about it, and doesn’t seem keen to; plus he seemed to recover from the whole thing pretty quickly, so…

But that would just be cowardly. Her mouth wrinkles and she pushes the thought aside. 

“That bad is it?” he drawls.

She starts, jerking her head up. “Hm? Oh–no, no. I just, ah…” She drops her eyes back to her hands and the bruise she’s tending on his shoulder, shuffling around the words on her tongue until they fit together right.

“I wanted to apologize for… earlier.” Not entirely direct, but not so vague that he won’t know what she’s talking about. 

A smirk plays across his mouth at the edge of her vision. “I assume you’re referring to your impassioned speech in Ladle?” 

A nervous titter slips past her lips and pink splashes across her face, his easy demeanor softening a measure of the tension trying to stiffen her back. “ _Impassioned_ , was it?”

“ _Quite_.” 

Gwen fights against another giggle, shaking her head to realign her thoughts. “Whatever you want to call it, I…” The words stumble and hesitate on the tip of her tongue, and she takes a bolstering breath before pushing them out, “I’m sorry for losing my head like that. For yelling at you, and for swearing, and being so, ah… Harsh.” 

His smirk grows wider and tilts wryly. “You call _that_ yelling, do you?”

A rush of inane embarrassment makes her cheeks hot and hikes her shoulders up to her ears. “Ah, well,” she concedes, “perhaps more in spirit.”

“I’m impressed, honestly,” he replies. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

 _Neither did I, really.._. and it’s far from her finest moment. She fights a wince and only partially succeeds. The persistence of his irreverent amusement helps smooth out a few more wrinkles in her conscience, easing her overabundance of discomfort by demonstrating his own lack of it. 

“I was… more overwhelmed than I realized, and it got the better of me,” she says slowly. “So much has been going on, and then today was…”

“Hellish,” he offers. 

She laughs softly, bobbing her head. _Yes, that about covers it_. “I was so frustrated about everything with Ryne, with us–”

And maybe his expression shifts a little at ‘ _us_ ,’ but she doesn’t let it distract her. 

“–and I was so… gods I was so angry that you wanted to stay and fight alone, and furious at myself for abandoning you–”

The angle of his brow and the tilt of his mouth suggest a protest, but she keeps talking before he can speak.

“–and from the moment I lost sight of you I was so–” the end of the sentence catches in her throat. “It was the Sultana’s Banquet all over again, and I was terrified that you might…” The whole truth is too hard to force out, too large to fit past the sudden tightness in her throat, but it’s obvious enough where her line of thought is leading.

She offers a self-deprecating smile, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness pervading the air. “Though I know it, ah, didn’t exactly seem like it, seeing how the first thing I did when I saw you was–”

“Throw your arms around me and hug me rather desperately, if memory serves,” Thancred interjects.

No, she’d– Wait…

Her train of thought hits a snag and falls apart, and she flounders to put it back together again. It’s not easy, weariness catching up with her now that she’s lost the momentum to keep ahead of it. It’s been such a _long_ day _,_ and he’s not at all bothered by her yelling at him, even though she feels like he should be, and the more she relaxes the more she remembers how tired she is, and…

Eventually she settles for a weak laugh, shoulders slumping in defeat. “That _is_ the first thing I did, isn’t it…”

“If it’s any consolation,” he offers, “your concern was abundantly clear.”

She scoffs quietly. “I thought the only ‘abundantly clear’ thing was that I, ah… spent time around Limsa’s dockworkers.”

“That, too.” He smiles and speaks with the tone of someone who’s already given the topic a great deal of thought, “But being upset I’d almost gotten myself killed, especially for the sake of proving a point, sounds like concern to me.”

‘Upset’ is _far_ too mild a word for the overwhelming hurricane of emotion that had driven her to within a hair’s breadth of collapsing in a heap in the middle of the desert.

“I insisted on waiting for a ‘right time’ that I knew would never come, and then put myself in a position to be out of time altogether. I would have rather risked my life than be open and honest with Ryne, or myself.” He looks like he might shrug, but doesn’t. “It was reckless. And selfish.”

“Don’t forget foolish,” she mumbles without thinking, full consideration about whether or not she ought to keep the remark to herself coming far too late to matter. She blames it on fatigue and his ability to be so vexingly disarming.

He chuckles, “Can’t forget that.”

Only a hint of discomfort seeps between her thoughts as she recalls the one-sided exchange again, remorse no longer needling so sharply at her. “Still, I shouldn’t have… I should have waited until we were in private, or at least until I’d calmed down. I should have _talked_ to you, not ye–” she narrows her eyes at him, “not _snapped_ like that, especially not in front of the others.” 

Thancred sighs. Making light of a topic offers only so much reassurance when one of the participants insists on addressing it even remotely seriously.

“You tried,” he reminds her. “More than once, if memory serves. But I wasn’t willing to hear you, or explain myself.” 

He leans back on his hands, considering. “I’m not going to claim I didn’t deserve… some of the criticisms I’ve received from you and the others. Especially in regards to being so closed with Ryne, and not doing more to allay her doubts.”

The look on his face hints he has more to say, so Gwen waits and works, letting him take all the time he wants to mull over his words in peace.

“Whatever decision Ryne made today, I wanted it to be wholly _hers_ , free of outside influence or any desires but her own–including mine. I had hoped inaction would prevent me from inadvertently affecting her decision, so I kept silent, even when I shouldn’t have.” 

He pauses for a beat, remorse tugging at his features and frustration putting a small wrinkle between his brows, “But inaction is an action in and of itself, of course. And silence speaks in its own way.” 

Gwen hums softly, understanding, and smooths her fingers over the back of his hand.

She’d been right, in more ways than not, about what was going on inside his head. It’s reassuring, even as sympathy twinges in her chest.

He wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if Ryne had given up her life for his sake, but he couldn’t bear the thought of her choosing a life she didn’t want just because of him, either. 

He’d always known all of this would end with him losing someone he loved, no matter what he did. What outcome could he have hoped for besides a miracle?

But she’d missed the mark on a few things, particularly in regards to today; how he would handle the aftermath of Nabaath Araeng, and what state he’d be in when all was said and done.

In that, she’s glad to be wrong.

Thancred heaves a sigh, shaking off the gloom trying to gather at the edges of his expression. “Suffice it to say, I have no shortage of amends to make and missteps to correct. And not only with Ryne.” He glances at her, offering a small, rueful smile, “‘Twould be fair to say I’ve been something of an arse of late.” 

Then his smile widens, softening and tilting wryly, a jest, “Sorry, I mean a _stubborn, thickheaded hobson_.”

A laugh bursts past her lips before she can stop it, so abrupt it’s nearly a snort, and then more bubble up after it. She inanely wonders if she ought to tell Giott she was rubbing off on her. The dwarf would surely be proud.

The slight tension that had started to build in his posture melts away, his smile growing wider and warmer.

“Lest you worry, I don’t intend to warrant such _scolding_ again.” He feigns a shudder, “I’d sooner face the whole of the Imperial army with my hands tied behind my back.”

That gets her giggling all over again, and him chuckling along with her. 

She takes a few steadying breaths to get herself under control before hefting herself up and stepping in front of him. “And I have no intention of, heh, making a habit of such ‘scolding,’ either.”

They share a bit more quiet laughter that peters out into quieter sighs. Just like that the last hints of discomfort in the air vanish. 

Another invisible weight lifts off her shoulders and her heart sags with relief. She’s suddenly light and loose in a way that makes her feel a bit precarious and wobbly, like the pressure that had been crushing her had also been holding her together, and without it she’s at risk of coming apart. Maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing, though now is a rather inopportune time.

Gwen checks how much salve is left, taking the moment to steady herself. The jar isn’t quite empty, but they’ll have to check with the alchemist if his injuries need more tending tomorrow. Thankfully, she’s already covered all but the bruise on his cheek and the one hiding up in his hairline.

Thancred straightens up, grimacing only slightly with the motion, and parts his legs so she can step between them. He watches her through half-closed eyes as her fingertips drift along his brow and then up, into his hair. She combs his bangs back, finding no hidden scabs or abrasions on his scalp and savoring the sensation of his hair sliding soothingly between her fingers. His eyelids sag further as her hand slows, drawing out the moment just a little longer.

Physical connection offers a tangible sort of reassurance that is far more effective at smoothing out the last stubborn wrinkles of worry than simply reminding herself that he’s alive and well, and she can’t help stealing just a bit more of it when the chance presents itself.

The salve slowly trickling down her fingers tugs her out of her reverie and brings her focus back to her task. 

His eyes flutter fully open, slow to focus and dull with tiredness, as she gingerly tends to the last of his bruises with that same lingering touch. Once that excuse as been spent she makes another out of fixing his hair, nudging his bangs around until they’re falling correctly. 

His hands find her waist, light at first and shifting around as if trying to remember exactly where they used to go, before settling comfortably.

He musters a charming smile that doesn’t quite mask the tender look easing across his face. “Mayhap I can convince you to stay?”

A gentle, fluttery feeling squeezes her heart and turns the cottony tiredness in her head into rosy fluff. She hums softly, cupping his face in her hands and leaning her forehead against his.

His expression lifts and melts all at once, and she’s sure hers does the same. He draws her closer and wraps his arms around her waist, stopped from bringing them fully together by her knees butting up against the edge of the bed.

She presses her lips softly to the healed cut on his, sharing half a breath before he turns to meet her in a slow, tender kiss. Time stops and her mind goes blank, the whole of her attention narrowing to the weight of his arms around her waist and the languid slide of his lips against hers, one kiss melting unhurriedly into another, and another.

They part slowly, noses bumping affectionately before she settles her forehead against his, head pleasantly light and thoughts slow to put themselves back together. 

Gwen sways into him, the peaceful night is sinking into her bones, weighing on her eyelids when she wrestles them open. She hums quietly at him, meaningless little sounds of endearment that somehow don’t disturb the silence. 

Thancred mumbles back, eyes falling shut as she slides lazy fingers through his hair. He looks more content and at ease now than he has since she arrived on Norvrandt. 

She curls her fingers, nails scratching lightly, and he lets out a low sound of relief, just as she’d hoped. He angles his head slightly and she obliges the unspoken request, dragging her nails over a different spot. He groans softly, goosebumps briefly prickling under her fingers as his already lax posture loosens further, as if she’d hit a pressure point.

His exhaustion feeds her own as seconds turn to minutes of simple, quiet intimacy, and her grasp on consciousness starts to slip in earnest. Her vision slides out of focus, slowly growing darker and beginning to blur. It takes her too long to realize that her eyes are sliding shut.

She trades stroking his hair for draping her arms around his shoulders when they become too heavy to hold up. Her breaths grow slower and longer, her little hums growing softer and slower as her thoughts drift and blur.

He says something that lifts at the end like a question, sounding surprisingly lucid. Part of a reply almost makes it to her tongue, but falls short.

He tugs at her waist and her balance threatens to shift, comfortable darkness closing slowly around her. She wobbles but stays standing, leaning more heavily against him to keep her balance.

Smaller nudges and tugs at her waist, her back, her thigh, coaxing her to move and trying to guide her. She’s slow to try and follow them, lethargic and clumsy and unable to remember why she needs to move when she’s so wonderfully comfortable where she is. 

A fond sigh. A touch at her cheek, nudging her head up. Then gentle hands grasp and pull, gathering her close and holding her steady while the world shifts around her. 

All of the moving stops when she comes to rest on pillowy softness that smells faintly of sandalwood and gunpowder. She almost falls asleep right then, but clings stubbornly to the last dregs of her consciousness because somewhere amidst the transition Thancred slipped from her grasp. She reaches blindly for him, mustering the strength for a questioning hum. 

His lazy chuckle is somehow distant and close at the same time, as warm and soft as a spring evening. He gives her searching hand a little squeeze before nudging it aside and unwinding her braid with gentle fingers. Then there’s a tug at her waist and on her legs, a few quiet clinking sounds, and then comfortable looseness. It takes entirely too long for the sounds to register the buckles on her belt and boots.

Thancred moves, the mattress dipping briefly before his warm weight settles at her back. He winds his arms around her and pulls her snugly against him, molding around her and weaving their legs together so there’s not an ilm of space between them. 

They fit together perfectly.

Gwen nestles against him, utterly content, and breathes out the last of her strength in a blissful little sigh.

His lips are soft against the nape of her neck, breath whispering through her hair as he shapes words against her skin. She’s too far gone to catch any of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello yes I still write LONG THINGS.
> 
> This was definitely more of a challenge than the first part, as evidenced by how long it took me to write it, but I’m really happy with how it turned out :3
> 
> I’m not exaggerating when I say I had 4 different drafts (anywhere from 40-75% complete) of this story, the last of which ended up morphing into this one. They were all generally the same, but had very different events, vibes and approaches to the conversation (which was THE hardest part) that never seemed to quite fit what I wanted, which led to a lot of fiddling and then eventually deciding, “well, I don’t think I’ll use it… but there’s good stuff I should save” and then making a new draft lol.
> 
> And in the end: THIS!
> 
> All the thanks and hugs in the world to @rhymingteelookatme who’s been the best, most patient beta reader ever!!! Thank you so much!


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